


The Man Who Can't Be Moved

by march_of_pens



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Spoilers, M/M, Post-Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie), i was sad when I wrote this, post IW depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-18
Updated: 2018-10-18
Packaged: 2019-08-03 18:28:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16331264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/march_of_pens/pseuds/march_of_pens
Summary: It seemed his entire life, Steve could never stop moving. Whether it was to a fight, a fair, a movie, or countless wars, Steve ran in that direction.But what, if just once, he refused to move?





	The Man Who Can't Be Moved

Steve had not slept in thirty-two days, eight hours, and twenty-six minutes.

 

He would stare at the ceiling for hours, unblinking, attempting to even begin to process the losses that the team, that _he_ had suffered. The fallens’ faces flashed in full color behind his closed lids, vivid pictures of what he imagined their final moments to be.

 

Vision’s face contoured in a chilling yell, powerless to stop the stone that was the force holding his very life from being ripped from his head.

Wanda, throwing herself at Thanos in vain attempts to stop him from turning back the clock, being knocked aside like a child’s toy. He had glimpsed her form lying desolately on the ground, too grief-stricken to arise again. Had she even been sad to go, after losing the love of her life?

 

Sam, who he saw again and again trying to reach Steve and disintegrating with a hand still outstretched.

 

T’Challa, who had become a reliable and genuine friend over the past two years, drifting away with a hand out to help his general to her feet.

 

Nick Fury, who he could not see any other way than the man fighting tooth and nail to stop that impetus.

 

Maria Hill, who stood by her boss until her last moments in his mind’s eye.

 

Bucky Barnes. His breathing stuttered at the name. Steve’s best friend, the one relic from his past, the single constant in his very, very long life. Scenes flew like a stop motion movie in his mind: Bucky at the fair, holding him close, Bucky after his mother’s funeral, promising him devotion. Bucky falling from that damned train, Bucky’s smile, Bucky chasing off the thugs that would beat Steve up, anything and everything that had served as fodder for their relationship. Thousands of memories, sacrifices, games, conversations, hugs, and _love_ swirled away with the wind.

 

Steve wasn’t even able to find an urn to gather the ashes in.

Their faces haunted him, even in daylight. He would turn around to tell Bucky an idea, or just some crazy thought, only to find empty air. He kept expecting to see Wanda and Vision walking together through the Wakandan city, or Sam grinning at him, ready with some smart-ass remark. Every time, he was disappointed, and every time, the abyss in his chest swallowed more of his heart. With each pulse he could feel the foundation that held up his morals crumbling, and he knew he wasn’t the only one.

 

Last week he had caught Okoye staring at T’Challa’s empty throne, gut-wrenching pain etched upon her face. Upon seeing him, she did not even attempt to school her features into indifference, instead nodding in gratitude when he joined vigil beside her. They stood like that, a general without a king and a captain without a country, until the stars vanished from the sky.

 

Natasha was exceptional with her guise of stability; Steve would have thought her to be unaffected if he didn’t know her better. With a few drinks and a punching bag, however, her sorrow was revealed through bruised knuckles and a tear-stained face.

 

Bruce was caught in a never ceasing cycle of self-loathing and questioning what he could have done better. He thought he should have fought harder for Thor, instead of giving up after Thanos threw a few punches. He should have never let Tony follow Strange onto that spaceship; he should have taken Tony with him to Wakanda, because surely the genius could have removed the mindstone in minutes.

 

And therein lied the root of Steve’s insomnia.

 

What if Bruce had brought Tony to Wakanda? Would he and Steve had reconciled, joined forces? Would they have been able to be Thanos, had they fought together?

_“We’ll lose.”_

_“Then we’ll do that together too.”_

 

Maybe Steve would have been able to explain why he had to protect Bucky, why he gave everything for a broken soldier. That Bucky was more than a friend, that he was all Steve had left from the era he had known, how he was incapable of just lying down when Bucky had saved him countless times.

_“He’s my friend.”_

_“So was I.”_

 

He would tell Tony that they were friends; that it wasn’t faked like the press preferred to instigate. He could tell Tony how much he loved his smile, how he loved the grease that would appear in crescents beneath the mechanic’s fingernails after spending the day in the workshop, the sarcastic, witty humor that would emerge, Steve found, not to antagonize him, but to deepen their bond.

 

He would tell Tony that all these things combined and fused into a love so strong that Steve buried beneath responsibilities and excuses and lies and betrayal for so very long.

 

Love that Steve only realized when Tony was already out of his reach.

 

Sometimes he wished he could forget all the things that made up his love for Tony Edward Stark, but was immediately struck by waves of guilt upon the thought. He knew for certain that losing his memories of Tony would be a pain far worse than the seemingly insurmountable grudge between them.

_“Is that your sixteenth cup of coffee?” Steve asked, appalled._

_Tony winked. “More espresso, less depresso.”_

_“Go get your boyfriend from his creepy tech basement,” Natasha ordered. “Time for him to ingest solid sustenance.”_

_“Sure,” Steve replied. “And he is not my boyfriend!” he called over his shoulder._

_Stepping over the threshold and around the various machines that littered the floor, Steve made his way over to a pair of legs jutting out from under the flaming 1932 Ford Flathead Roadster. He could just barely discern a voice over the cacophony that was Black Sabbath._

_“Hey Dummy! Get your ass over here and clean up that motor oil. I don’t give a damn if the texture bothers you, you’re a robot. You can’t really feel anything.”_

_Steve nudged one of the legs with his shoe, wincing at the painful thunk that resulted._

_“Who the hell has an IQ low enough to bother me while I’m under a car made during the last world war!?” A long pause, then: “Probably the same golden retriever that served in it. Steven, to what do I owe the pleasure?”_

_Steve knelt down beside the front tire. “Nat cooked again and this time you are expected to eat it with the rest of us. That is, assuming you value your life?”_

_The sound of wheels, and Tony emerged alongside Steve’s knee. “When have my actions ever supported that hypothesis?”_

_Steve couldn’t respond to that, shocked that Tony would see so little value in his life. Tony, seeing Steve’s somber expression, cracked a smile. “Kidding, of course Capsicle. I never, once in my life, have doubted my own worth. Why do you think I’m a billionaire and you’re living in my house?”_

_Steve’s lips twitched. “I think it’s because you’re my sugar daddy.”_

_Tony let out a laugh that lit up his entire body. His shoulders shook, laugh lines popped into existence, straight white teeth flashed, and his eyes absolutely sparkled._

_That was the moment that Steven Grant Rogers fell for Anthony Edward Stark._

 

From then on, Steve had been practically a witness to the avalanche that were his emotions. Every time Tony aimed a smile at him, talked to him, glanced at him, or even called him some stupid name would cause a turning of his stomach, a rush of oxytocin to his brain.

 

Now all those memories were driving him deeper and deeper into despair. He had wasted so much time, made so many unforgiveable mistakes. He had hurt Tony in ways few others had; betraying him, lying to him, fighting him, diminishing the light that drew Steve to him in the first place. Every wrong decision, every action that ended in Tony’s pain played in a perpetual loop behind his eyelids.

 

He never closed his eyes. He wouldn’t, until his love returned.

 

No one, not even Natasha, questioned him when he left the palace grounds with only a satchel crossing his chest. He felt, somehow, they knew they could not block him from what he was about to endure. Nat only hugged him, wishing him well and making him promise to stay safe. One glance into Steve’s eyes gave her no comfort on that promise.

 

He walked for untold hours, far away from the city of Wakanda and deep into the African wilderness. He walked until the forests morphed into savannas and the rhinos changed to antelope, and even then, he did not stop until his feet touched the horizon. He watched the sunset, wishing he could witness it from upstate New York instead. Still, Steve held his fingertips to the stars, imagining Tony could feel his touch.

_“So sentimental, Rogers. You might as well wish on a shooting star while you’re at it.”_

 

“Well, Tony,” he said, laughing harshly, “Maybe that would be just enough luck to bring you home.”

He counted the stars until they began to disappear, and the light came to consume the dark sky. Still he did not move, not even to eat or drink. He let the numbness in his legs, the stiffness of his muscles dominate over every other feeling he had, until all that existed was the reminder that he was doing this for Tony.

 

The sun set, and Steve refused to flinch at the howls of the hyenas that surrounded him. He stared unflinchingly at the retreating light, refusing to be afraid at the terrors of the night. In the end, they would fear him.

 

The third day of his vigil dawned, and Steve still had not moved from where he stood in the swaying grasses. He watched the sun crack the horizon’s shell, breaking the coolness of the night with a pulse of warmth. A light breeze caressed his long hair, blowing a strand into his face. Steve could not be bothered to brush it away. The heat increased, but he did not feel the discomfort that should accompany it.

 

The days and nights began to bleed together into memories of Tony, until all Steve could see were warm brown eyes and smile lines.

_“It’s called Instagram. Pepper says I should get one.”_

_“I will if you will.”_

_Tony snorted. “The man who couldn’t keep a transponder intact wants to dip his toes in social media? Come on.”_

_Steve frowned, a furrow appearing between his eyebrows. “How about we make a bet then?”_

_“Over what?”_

_“What are those -“ Steve paused. “Those number of people that like you called?” He asked, handing Tony a screwdriver._

_“Followers, Capsicle,” Tony said, rolling his eyes._

_“Followers, then,” Steve said, a grin spreading across his face. “If I get more, you have to…let me drive your 1932 Ford Flathead Roadster.”_

_The screwdriver flew past his head. “There is no way in hell that you are driving my baby!” Tony growled._

_“Then I guess you’ll have to make sure you win,” Steve said, smirking._

 

_“How many cups is that?”_

_“Most certainly not more than eighteen.”_

_“You were given a fifteen cup limit.”_

_“We don’t have a rule rod up our ass, Rogers. Shut up and get me another.”_

_“Tony!” Steve called, walking into the workshop. “Were you planning on – oh.” He stopped and walked silently to where Tony had passed out on the desk, surrounded by messy notes and plans. The man’s face was relaxed, unperturbed in sleep, yet he still had a tightness in his brow that suggested he was solving problems in his dreams. Not wanting to disturb his slumber, Steve grabbed a nearby drop cloth, covering Tony with it. He turned to leave, but something anchored his feet to the floor. He gazed at Tony’s serene face, overcome by a wave of affection. He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to his genius’ temple, then backed away. The farther he got, the more conflicted he felt. What were these feelings? He had never felt about another man like this, but somehow all he desired was to carry Tony up to his bed, so they could wake up together._

_As the months passed, Steve didn’t just fall for Tony; he fell into Tony himself. All the things that previously irked him, the sarcasm, the ego, the never-ceasing scientific fascination, the music that would shake the walls. All of it just made him delve deeper into his fixation._

_The time came when he was tired of waiting. He didn’t care what the public or the team would think; he just wanted, he needed, to know Tony not as a friend, but as a lover. He had everything prepared: dinner, a walk through the park, a car show. It would have been perfect._

_And then he saw the news, and everything went to shit._

 

The sparkle he adored in those eyes was extinguished by lies, the smile turned into a grimace of fear as Steve’s shield crashed into his chest, breaking the light that kept him alive.

 

And Steve had just left him, lying there, prone to hypothermia and trapped in a suit of his own making.

 

Steve had made his choice, and they all had paid for it.

 

But hadn’t they paid enough? If one thing was certain, it was the fact that they really didn’t have anything left to lose.

 

He was done being guilty, he was done with his mistakes. The future’s nightmares could not hold a candle to the ones in his past.

 

Steve finally moved; he closed his eyes, welcoming the pain of the images that flashed before them, welcoming the pleasure that followed.

 

When he opened his eyes again, it was to see Tony’s broken face.

 

Steve had left him before. He refused to do it again.

 

He opened his arms, and Tony stumbled home.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I have had this sitting in my files since the turmoil in the days that followed my viewing of IW. I have not published before, but recently I have been pushed to open myself to new opportunities. I thought this would be a fun way to open myself up to the world, and let people glimpse a bit of my imagination. Thank you, whoever you are, for ready this story.


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